Looking Through Slow Glass
by il-bambino
Summary: The Basterds are rendered speechless when Stiglitz stumbles into camp with a seemingly dead girl in his arms. However, she is much more alive than The Basterds believe, and about to reveal a secret that could ruin their mission in France.
1. She Was Fucking Dead!

**Alright then... when you've finished, I would really appreciate a review. It doesn't take much. And, if anyone has any suggestions or queries, the review section is a good place to submit/ask anything. Thanks people, and enjoy!**

The girl was lying with her stomach on the road. Her face was turned slightly to the left. Her eyes were closed.

Uncertainly, the man's boot lightly prodded her ribs. He couldn't fathom the reason why she was surrounded by a pool of blood. There were no gun or knife wounds that could be seen, nor any blood around or in her mouth.

The man pushed harder with his boot and she rolled over. Her jaw hung open. She had good teeth. There was a large purpling bruise above her right eyebrow. Her eyelids were half-closed, and the man could see blue eyes shadowed by dark blonde lashes. She had a thick, long plait that had been trapped beneath her and now lay like rope across her chest. It was a dirty blonde colour. Strands of hair were caught in her eyelashes and the corner of her mouth.

The man turned his attention to her body. From her skinny form, slim face and child-like breasts he guessed her age at around twelve. She was in fact older.

Laying down his gun, the man reached down and laid his fingers on the girl's cheek. She looked peaceful.

Then two things happened in such a short space of time it was almost like they had been practised.

The girl opened her eyes.

And Donny Donowitz yelled in fright.

Later, he would say that it was a battle-cry, or something of the sort. But in that second, Donny was terrified. All the tales of faeries and witches, told to him by a malicious older brother, came back in a flash. And then the girl coughed and rolled over. And Donny was himself again.

He picked up his gun and aimed it at the girl.

'What the fuck are you doing?' he shouted at her. The girl's head flicked up, and she pushed herself away from Donny, scrambling over the dusty ground, her fingers clutching at dirt.

'What the fuck are you fucking doing?' Donny shouted again.

'Non! Je ne comprends pas ce que vous dites! S'il vous plaît!' The girl cried out, tears spilling uncontrollably down her cheeks.

'What the fuck are you saying?' Donny's voice was still loud. The girl fumbled her words, attempting to speak in English.

'Monsieur, I cannot understand… you speak… S'il vous plaît! Français!' She was still moving backwards, pursued by Donny who hadn't moved the aim of his gun from her face.

The girl stopped moving when her back hit something. She turned her face and then jumped up away from the dead body that lay, face up, on the road. There was congealed blood around the man's eyes, nose and lips. His skin was yellowing.

Donny took the girl by the shoulders and shook her.

'You were fucking dead! Why the fuck were you lying in the fucking road?'

The girl let loose another bubbling stream of French.

'For fuck's sake, Donny. Put the fucking girl down. She doesn't know what you're saying,' Utivich said, coming up behind him. Donny dropped the girl, and she fell to her knees.

'She was lying in the fucking road, dead. Then I poked her and she fucking jumped up and started screaming in French! What the fuck was I supposed to do?' Donny demanded, still a little shaken.

'How about not yelling at her? We're in France, moron. People speak French here,' Utivich replied with a smirk.

'So what do we do with her? Just tell her to fuck off? Should we take her to the 'tenant?'

'Aldo'd probably shoot her. We should just let her go,' Utivich said calmly, then continued on a slightly depressing note, 'She'll probably die anyway. It looks like she escaped some sort of a Nazi attack.' Utivich and Donny surveyed their surroundings. Seventeen bodies lay strewn across the road and there were several more in the forest that ran either side of it.

'If she's a Jew, shouldn't we protect her? Killing Nazis, protecting Jews – it's the same thing,' Donny asked, casting a scrutinizing glance over the girl at his feet. She was staring at the bodies that lay on the ground. Suddenly she screamed and ran to one of the bodies.

'Papa! Non! Papa! Réveillez-vous! Non!' The girl dropped to her knees by the side of a man who looked to be in his mid forties. He had four bullet wounds in his chest and his skin was pale and grey. He had been dead for fifteen hours.

Donny and Utivich ran after the girl, and pulled her off the man's body.

'Lâchez-moi! Papa! Papa!' The girl yelled, struggling fruitlessly against Donny's bear-like arms. Donny carried her across the road and threw her down there. She tried to run to her father's body again, but Donny grabbed her and pulled her back.

The girl looked up at him with anger and fright in her eyes.

'Salaud! Permettez-moi de voir mon papa! Maintenant! Je vais te tuer!' Donny crouched down in front of her.

'You know, I got no idea what the fuck you're on about,' he said calmly, smirking at her. The girl spat at him, then fled into the forest. Donny took two steps after her, then turned around.

'Stiglitz still patrolling?' Donny asked.

Utivich nodded and said, 'He'll find her.'

* * *

Léa ran through the trees, tears wet on her cheeks, her hair sticking to her face. Her legs burned at the effort of running. She tripped over a log and cut her arms on the bark. She pulled herself up, using a tree for help and realised that one her shoes had come off. Léa wiped the tears from her face and stooped to pick up her shoe. Then she heard a twig crack behind her. Slowly, Léa turned and looked round. She could see the shadow of a man, hazy in the sunlight poking through the trees. Tall, square-shouldered, armed.

Léa ran fast, her terror giving her wings. A twig scratched her face and she felt warm blood trickling down her cheek.

She could feel thorns under her bare foot and kept hitting her elbows and knees on branches. Keeping the same speed, Léa turned to look behind her; she couldn't see the man any longer. Not looking where she was going, Léa ran straight into the back of someone.

She looked up, terrified. The man turned round. It was the same broad-shouldered man from before. He looked like he had come straight from a Nazi propaganda poster; blue eyes, blond hair, square jaw. The man was wearing a green Nazi jacket, and a beige shirt, and he had the largest gun Léa had ever seen. Léa took two steps back.

'Was machst du?' The man's voice was smooth and yet rough at the same time, deep and not unpleasant to listen to. He was German.

Léa didn't understand what he said. She took another step back.

'Please,' she said in French. 'Don't kill me.' The man frowned. Switched to English.

'What are you doing?' he asked again. Léa shook her head, eyes wide. Then she ran.

**01-09-10, I just changed Aurélie's name to Léa. Sorry if this causes confusion, but it had to be done.**


	2. How Poetic, Donny

**I've changed the time sequence a bit from the film, and some things that happened in the film will not happen in this fiction. Sorry it took so long, but here it is! Enjoy, and please review! **

It was late summer of the year 1944 in France, and the yellow leaves that fell from the tall skeletal trees carpeted the forest floor with their dying bodies. The ground was soft underfoot; it sank and seemed to suck in heavy feet. The mid-day sky was pale and cold; there was no wind, yet the branches shivered with a sound like rain on glass.

There was a deliciously earthy smell in the air: the sharpness of pinesap, tangy wood smoke and the subtle hint of decaying matter. However, after a week in the forest – after that smell had crept into your clothes and blankets, after all food tasted of it – that smell became less attractive to the point of being the one thing you hated above all else.

In a small clearing, at the centre of a circle of slopes, a group of nine men were gathered round the remnants of a fire, seated on the damp earth. One side of the clearing was a wall of stone; part of an old fort dating back to the 1850's. It had ten-foot-wide alcoves space equally along its length, with one taller arch that served as a passageway into the old fort itself. The ground was a mass of leaves; red, yellow and brown seemed to churn on the forest floor like a stormy sea.

All nine men were dressed in the roughly same clothes – grey-green jackets, brown trousers, thick socks and boots – save one, a shorter man who seemed to be set apart from the group a little. The man had dark brown hair, shaved at the sides, covered by a cap of dark blue material. He wore a thin scarf of a similar colour wrapped round his neck, and was dressed plainly in a beige shirt, brown jacket and a short, dark military coat, which was missing two buttons. His trousers were brown, and his leather boots reached to just below his knees. There was a buckskin bag strung across his body, a large knife in a holster on one hip and a gun at the other. His eyes were dark blue, set into a slightly rounded face, and he had a clipped moustache on his upper lip and two days' worth of stubble on his chin. Ringing his neck was a ragged scar, a small 'trophy' of a failed lynching, ten years ago, back in Tennessee. His name was Lieutenant Aldo Raine, and he was thirty-one years old.

The men sat with him were Aldo's Jewish-American military group, named The Basterds. This nickname had been bestowed upon them by the German military, in their fear of the guerrilla unit. Although he would never let his soldiers know it, Aldo was proud of them; in under six months, The Basterds had managed to instil such a fear in the German Military and High Command that, in their fear-induced delirium, the Germans insisted on the Basterds' being spectres and ghosts, come to torture them and end their lives with cruelty, and pain.

Each man under Raine's command had his own personal talent: Wicki was very clever, and good with a knife – superb, even; Utivich was calm and quiet and could track humans like a wolf; Umer had a no-lose attitude and threw himself into any fight; Sakowitz and Kagan were excellent shots; Hirschberg was quick; Zimmerman could drink any man under the table and still have a level head. Then there was Sergeant Donny Donowitz, Raine's second-in-command: a 6"5", dark-haired and heavy-set man, with massive arms and a trunk-like torso. Raine looked across the fire at Donny, and watched as thick lashes blinked over dark brown, troubled eyes. Something was wrong with him. Since that morning, when Donny, Utivich and Stiglitz went scouting, Raine's second had been different somehow – more inverted, like there was something he did that he regretted. _Speaking of the scout patrol_, Raine thought, looking round the group of men, _where the hell is Stiglitz?_

He stood up, and the chatter from his men ceased.

'Donny, you went scoutin' earlier, didn't you?' Raine said, with a voice like sandpaper. 'So where the fuck's Stiglitz?' Donny looked at Utivich and then back to Raine.

'He went into the forest,' Donny said sparingly. Utivich nodded slowly, then his eyes flickered to Donny.

'There was that girl, the one you scared the fuck out of. What if Stiglitz found her and she caused some trouble or something?'

Raine eyed Donny over the fire.

'What are you talking about?' he asked. Donny looked at his feet. Raine nodded, knowing that the other men sat round the fire were hanging on their every word, and said, 'Utivich, Donny, we'll discuss this in private.' Motioning for Utivich and Donny to follow him, Raine stood and left the clearing, walking towards an archway in the old fort wall.

The leaves under Donny's feet crunched and rustled loudly. He could hear a bird calling out, far away in the forest somewhere; long melancholy cries. Then the sound and the sunlight were cut off abruptly and Donny felt a wave of cold dampness sweep over him as he entered the tunnel that led to the heart of the old fort.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Donny saw the clusters of blankets and thicker mattress-like bedrolls where his fellow Basterds slept. He could identify a few by personal belongings: Wicki's blanket was covered in an assortment of small knives; Zimmerman's bedroll had numerous unmistakeable hip-flask-shaped mounds; Donny's own 'bunk' had a yellowing paper backed novel, it's cover blue and pages splayed and bent, laying on it. It was English poetry: Keats. Donny had several other poetry books in his pack; he didn't like the others knowing – he felt they would laugh at him. As he passed, he quickly tucked the book under his blanket. He couldn't remember leaving it out like that.

Skirting the bedrolls, Donny followed Utivich's retreating back, silhouetted against an archway of light. They reached the end of the tunnel and suddenly sunlight poured onto Donny's body; he was in a round chamber that had multiple passageways – like the one they had recently passed through – leading off it, and a collapsed roof, through which the sunlight now streamed.

'Sit down, boys,' Raine requested, finding himself a seat, his eyes never leaving Donny. Utivich complied immediately; Donny hesitated, then obeyed, feeling like a child who'd been caught with their fingers in the honey jar. 'So, Donny, what the fuck's all this about you and a fucking girl?' Raine continued, his voice grating.

'It was that Jew massacre we saw. She was a part of it - 'least, I thought she was. 'Til she jumped up and started fucking about, screaming in French. Then she ran into the forest,' Donny mumbled, tripping over words.

'Yeah, but not before you picked her up and shook her about like a fucking doll!' Utivich interjected angrily. Donny glared at him – a look that Raine caught a glimpse of.

'She could've been a fucking spy or something! Why the fuck did you let her go?' Raine yelled.

'Sorry, Lieutenant, but I thought Stiglitz'd find her and then he'd bring her back here.'

'And when he didn't come back for four hours? What the fuck did you think then, Donny?' Donny opened his mouth and began to speak when he was sharply cut off by a voice that echoed down the tunnel and rebounded through the circular chamber.

'Lieutenant? You wanna come see this!'

* * *

She was dead, or at least unconscious; it was plainly easy to see. One hand – pale and fragile – hung limply in mid-air, suspended by a long, slender arm; it swayed to and fro with the movement of Stiglitz's step. He looked like he was carrying a child – rather than a young adolescent – in his arms. Her hair – long, plaited and hanging down from her body – swayed in time with her arm, and her bare feet – white as snow – jerked up and down with each step. There was blood around her mouth and nose – as Stiglitz walked, a tiny orb of red dripped from her chin onto the ground below. There was blood also on the front of her dress, and her arms and legs had innumerable scratches; lines of red cutting the porcelain skin into diamonds.

As Stiglitz entered the camp, girl in his arms and gun over his shoulder, it seemed to him like time slowed down: the few Basterds who were sat around the glowing embers of a fire seemed to look up in slow motion, their eyes widened comically and they looked in confusion and horror at the ostensibly dead child laying across his forearms. Stiglitz half-slid down the leaf-covered slope, and looked around the group of men for Raine, his Lieutenant. Wicki, noting his glance, ran to the fort entrance and shouted down it for the Lieutenant. Stiglitz lay the girl down on the leafy ground, bent over her body and brushed strands of hair from her face. The other Basterds kept a respectful distance – they knew Stiglitz to have a short temper and an unpredictable, wild anger; knowing nothing of the dead child or Stiglitz's finding of her, they stayed back, not wishing to tread on any soft ground and incur Stiglitz's wrath.

'Stiglitz, what the fuck is that?' Raine asked as he walked towards the pair: cold, white girl and straight-backed, maniacal killer. Stiglitz opened his mouth to answer but Donny got there first.

'It's that girl,' he blurted out, eyebrows knitting together. 'The Jewish one.' Raine looked at the girl and noted her injuries: her eyelids were dark, there was a large bruise on her temple, blood on her dress, cuts on her arms and blood around her mouth. 'Stiglitz, what the fuck'd you do to her?' Donny asked angrily. 'She was in no-way this bad a condition when we found her.' He dropped to his knees and felt at the girl's neck for a pulse. She had one; it was steady, but soft.

'I did nothing,' Stiglitz replied, his lilting accent clipping each word. His voice wasn't angry, but confused. Raine looked at him in surprise, and Stiglitz continued, 'I saw her running and followed her. She fell and I held her arm, then she bit me and ran again. I followed the trail she left – it was as though a bear had ripped through the forest. I found her lying in the middle of a thorn bush. I guessed she had run into a tree and knocked herself out. I don't know what happened.'

Loquacious was not a word one would use to describe Hugo Stiglitz; The Basterds as a whole had only heard twenty-odd sentences from him in four months. None of them, however, had heard him mutter a monologue of seven sentences. Behind Donny, Utivich's mouth dropped open, an enhanced reflection of the other Basterds' reactions.

However, none of them had time to complain; Ulmer's voice yelled at them to get cover and guns – the Nazis were here!

Jumping to attention, every man under Raine's command followed Ulmer's order, save for Raine himself – he picked up the girl, and crossed the clearing to the tunnel at a leisurely pace. Lying the girl down on Donny's bedroll, Raine grabbed Kagan's blanket and threw it over her, so she was covered from the chest down. Gunshots sounded. Raine spared on last look at the girl, then grabbed a gun leaning against the tunnel wall, checked it for ammunition, and ran to the tunnel entrance. Wicki was stood at the tunnel entrance, a massive machine gun in his arms, firing at a troop of sixteen Nazi fuckers. They dropped to the ground only to be replaced by another eight.  
'Get in there and stay with the girl,' Raine yelled, before swapping guns with Wicki, pushing him into the tunnel and opening fire on the grey-clad soldiers. They fell like dominoes, piling on top of each other. Raine exited the tunnel, still firing, and turned to another group of Nazis who had crept round the back of their camp. Every soldier took five bullets.

And as soon as it had started, it was over.

**OK, the second chapter is complete! Please review – it makes me all happy inside. There's another chapter coming, but it might take a while. I hope you like it! **


	3. The Rich Scent Of Rain

**It didn't take as long as I thought it would! I'm proud of myself. **

It had been an hour since Stiglitz stumbled into the camp, a thin, unconscious girl in his arms. The once-relatively-clean camp was now littered with innumerable grey-glad, scalped bodies. The Basterds grieved their losses; both Kagan's and Sakowitz's bodies had been put in the ground, multiple bullet wounds in their chests and limbs. Sakowitz had died first; when he saw his friend fall, a madness had taken Kagan over and he had thrown himself on a Nazi soldier, ripping at his eyes and not caring about the other armed soldiers around him.

In order to honour Kagan's and Sakowitz's deaths, they had buried them both as quickly as possible, in the clothes they had died in. They did not wash either man; Jews believe that the blood of a man is as holy as his life. Also buried with them, as a mark of respect for the work they both had done as a member of The Basterds, were three scalps and a knife. It was not an elaborate burial; only Zimmerman and Raine had been present, and no traditional words were said over the graves. As Raine said, 'We need not glorify two lives so full of cruelty, violence and pain. All we say is this; be at peace, your work on Earth is done.' Zimmerman and his commander trudged back to the camp under a setting sun, solemnity so heavy in the air around them it seemed almost visible.

The duties had been shared out – Stiglitz was to watch over the girl and relieve Wicki; Hirschberg was to light the fire; Donny and Utivich went to get food – they took guns to shoot rabbits; Wicki and Zimmerman were tasked with the unsightly job of removing clothes, weapons and valuables from the German soldiers – and nearly all completed. Against the fort wall, to the left of the archway, was a pile of Nazi boots, socks and various other items of clothing.

Raine was sorting through a pile of jewellery, soldier's medals, pocket watches, wallets and various photographic diptychs, taken from the dead Germans. He put all the money to one side – Reichmarks and centimes alike – and then sorted the rest of the 'loot' into different boxes.

Inside the tunnel, The Basterds' weapon and ammunition store was replenished, with knives, guns and an assortment of heavy cudgel-like objects.

However, Donny and Utivich had not returned from their food mission – but they had been gone for less than half an hour, and no-one was worried as yet – and Hirschberg was fighting to control his anger at the stubborn kindling. Match after match was lit, burnt down and discarded. Finally, Hirschberg's twenty-third match set the wood alight, and he let out a mixed cry of triumph and pain as the flame licked his fingers. Heat flared from the suddenly roaring fire. Piling on more wood, Hirschberg sat back on his haunches and stared into the fire's depths, a happy expression on his face that in no way reflected the day's events.

* * *

_Her hair was long and dark. He watched from the bed as she brushed it, then parted it at the side and took a handful in her slender fingers. Twisting it, she pinned the heavy lock at the back of her head, then repeated the process with the other side. A few strands, too short to have been caught in her styling, fell into her eyes, and she blinked them away. He lifted himself off the bed and put his hands on her shoulders, then cast his eyes over her elaborate bun. _

'_You are beautiful,' she whispered, looking at their reflection in the mirror atop her dressing table. He kissed her neck in response, just under the ear; the lovely pale flesh of her shoulders tensed under his light touch. She pushed herself from the chair and turned to face him. Her eye-level was at his collarbone, but she tilted her head and looked up at him, eyes full of adoration. She placed her palms on his chest, feeling the warm skin under the thin fabric of his shirt, and kissed his chin – the highest she could reach. His arm snaked around her waist and pulled her closer. Their toes touched._

'_Why must you leave me, Hugh?' she asked him, settling her head into the space beneath his chin. He had no answer for her, and he felt disappointed in himself that he could not satiate her need for a reply. He chose silence – a coward's choice, he knew. Her small nose rubbed the hollow between the clavicle bones in his chest. He could feel her breath on his skin. Suddenly, a feeling of intense sorrow forced it's way between them and his chest constricted with the pain of it. She started to fade away – he couldn't seem to feel her anymore – and then she was gone altogether. And he was left, kneeling, his eyes overflowing with hot tears of pain, crying out her name._

'_Magdalena!'_

Hugo Stiglitz awoke violently from his dream-turned-nightmare, breathless and hot. The shirt he wore to sleep in was soaked through, stuck to his skin with sweat. He could see nothing beyond the reach of his arm. The soft snores of his fellow Basterds resounded around him. They kept different time, like a practising orchestra. Hugo kicked off his blanket and pushed himself off his bedroll.

There was a soft dampness in the dark, night air. Small globes of water dripped from the fingers of trees with a decreasing repetition. The leaves underneath Hugo's bare feet, slick with rain, crackled softly as he walked through the camp. He picked up a long stick and crouched, poking morosely at the wet, blackened remnants of yesterday's fire. He tried to force the dream from his memory, but all he could see in front of his face was Magdalena's dark blue eyes and her soft cheeks. Helpless against the memories, Hugo Stiglitz put his face in his hands and cried. He choked on heavy sobs.

This lapse in decorum lasted for ten minutes, though it seemed to Hugo to last forever. As he regained his breath, wiped his reddening eyes and steadied himself against the sodden ground, the memories started to fade until he could no longer see Magda's small hands, or her tiny, round lips, full like a tulip bulb.

The rich scent of rain and earth rose from the ground as Hugo stood, his breath still catching slightly in his throat. He pulled his shirt over his head, discarding it on the pile of dead Nazi clothes, then rummaged through for a new one. In the half-dark, it was a difficult task. He tried on two or three before finding one that fit him properly, discovering in the process a new belt and a pair of thick socks, both of which he put on straight away. Soon he was dressed properly again, minus shoes.

As the sun started rising fully, the rain started again. Hugo walked through the forest, listening to the tinkling of water falling through the trees – a sound like glass shards falling to the floor. It seemed almost like the trees were talking. Hugo smoothed his wet hair back from his forehead and revelled in the feeling of cold water between his toes. The emptiness of the forest appealed to him on a subconscious level – he felt at home within the cage of trees. Hugo found the forest's beauty breathtaking. Something that his fellow Basterds would _never_ know.

* * *

_**Utivich, Smithson.**__ Twenty-five years of age. Black hair, blue eyes. Well kept and clean-shaven. Five foot eight inches tall. Private First Class of the American Armed Forces. Born Nashua, New Hampstead, date of birth 09/03/1919. Five immediate family members: mother, father, two brothers, one sister. Details unnecessary. _

A manicured hand flipped the thin folder closed and opened another. The names _Zimmerman, Frank _and _Hirschberg, Gerald, _were just visible, printed in a careful hand. Black ink. The thick paper had Germany's eagle, clutching a circular Swastika, stamped as a watermark in the bottom right-hand corner.

The owner of the hand was short – just over five foot nine – yet his pressed grey uniform and the multiple decorations on his left breast pocket gave him a presence that almost made up for his lack of height. He had brown hair with short sideburns, and was very clean-shaven. His eyes were very dark, the irises a sliver of blue surrounding a large pupil. Cruel eyes. There were creases at the corners of his eyes, and permanent frown lines on his forehead. He was, in all, a handsome man. His name was Hans Landa. His title: SS Colonel.

The Jew Hunter collected his the four or five files on his mahogany desk, tapping their bases on the surface to straighten them. He slipped the files into a larger one entitled '_**The Basterds**_,' pulled on his black raincoat and gloves, and picked up his hat from the table by the door. Checking his files one last time, the SS Colonel smoothed his hair, placed his hat on his head, and exited the room.

On the chair beside the desk, under a map book, a dictionary and a small bronze statue of Ares, the Greek god of war and bloodlust, one other file lay forgotten. On the front, in the same handwriting as the others, a name was written in the top right-hand corner.

_**Léa Marceau. **_

* * *

Gradually the unconsciousness faded to be replaced by a deep, dreamless sleep. Donny watched the girl over the top of his book; her toes curled and uncurled gently, her left index finger unknowingly caressed the palm of her right hand. Her face, so stiff in unconsciousness, twitched now and again, eventually relaxing into an expression of such satiated calm that it made Donny smile to look at her. She was perfectly peaceful and silent in her sleep.

Donny's mind tripped back to the day before: the dead girl on the road, the fear and panic in her eyes as she surfaced from unconsciousness to find Donny screaming at her in a language she couldn't understand, her efforts to get to her father's side. Donny shook his head – he regretted what he had done. There was no reason for him to have reacted like that. Suddenly something Aldo'd said came back to him: '...could've been a fucking spy!' Looking across at the girl again, he snorted. As if any Nazi'd be retard enough to get a kid to spy on The Basterds.

She was blonde – it was clear from the colour of her eyebrows and eyelashes. Her hair was so dirty to be nearly brown, and very long. Donny guessed that it would be nearly to her waist if she let it loose. Under the blanket she wore a plain dress of a light, blue material; it had a collar and tied around the waist with four buttons. She wore no shoes. The girl had a fragile bone structure: a finely crafted face of high cheekbones and slender jaw, long fingers – thin and almost skeletal, a collarbone that stuck out nearly an inch from her body. A very child-like body, her bones almost visible under the skin – more undernourished than slender.

The bruise on her forehead was dark and menacing, stark against her near-white skin; her eyes seemed sunken because of the shadowed lids. Donny had cleaned the blood from her face earlier, but traces of it still remained around her nose and in the corners of her mouth.

Looking down at her again, Donny felt suddenly conflicted. It amazed him how far the ranges of emotion went, and the different types of emotion one could feel. Red-hot anger or white fury. Passionate obsession and desperate helplessness. He suddenly wanted to know her name, and instantly knew that, if she ever woke up, the girl would hate him on sight. He was her captor, in a sense – he wouldn't let her leave the camp. It would be a while until she would be able to see him without feeling hatred, Donny realised, full of regret. How fickle humans could be – how patronizing, and hypocritical. He hated it all – the emotions, the all-encompassing _need _to be a better person... the one thing he could rely on was the one thing he hated: Nazis. Killing gave Donny the strangest sense of calm – it instilled in him such a quiet that he wanted to never stop.

'_The human dress is forged iron,_

_The human form a fiery forge,_

_The human face a furnace sealed,_

_The human heart its hungry gorge,_' Donny whispered, quoting from the poetry book in his hands. The girl on Donny's bedroll rolled over slightly, and a few half-formed words came, whispered, from her mouth, 'Le Juif ours...'

Donny closed his book and put it inside his pack. He couldn't find the Keats book he had hidden the day before. It frustrated him. He had been on the point of memorizing the poem _Bright Star._ Standing, Donny went to the exit of the tunnel and looked out. It was a little past midday and the rain had long since stopped. He touched the ground with his fingers – it was still a little wet. The rest of The Basterds were with their Lieutenant, visiting the nearest town to stock up on food and to buy more blankets. They had taken the truck. Donny had been left behind to look after the girl. He didn't mind, but he put on a show of being affronted when Wicki suggested it. Donny liked having time to himself – it got tiring sometimes, being a crass American who beat men with a baseball bat for fun, having that shell of protection that hid his true personality from the world. Donny the romantic. He scoffed himself, and spat onto the ground, then looked round the camp. Empty. _Well what did you expect, moron? _he asked himself.

Fed up with being cold, Donny went up the slope to the pile of Nazi clothes that Wicki and Zimmerman had pulled off the various dead Germans scattered around their clearing. He knew it was his own fault – the being cold, as all he was wearing was a vest and trousers. Most of the clothes were dry – the fort wall had an overhang which had sheltered them from the rain. Donny dug deep into the pile of Nazi uniforms, searching for a jacket, jumper or coat that he could use to keep warm. He had no qualms with wearing a dead man's clothes. It didn't bother him in the slightest.

He threw a pair of jackboots to the back of the pile, followed quickly by a pair of trousers and a very large, grey officer's jacket. Then, Donny found a button-down Henley undershirt and a black-collared, grey jacket with four pockets and epaulettes that would fit him. He pulled off his braces, stuck his head through the shirt and did up the four buttons, then shoved his arms into the Nazi Commander's jacket. Feeling slightly warmer, Donny went back inside the fort passageway and sat down on his bunk. Then he jumped up again and looked around wildly.

He was stood where, until two minutes ago, the girl had been laying.

**Please review! It makes my day to get emails from FanFiction telling me I have reviews. The poem Donny recited was **_**A Divine Image, **_**by William Blake. I love that poem, and it seemed to fit in with Donny's emotion complex he was having there. Again, thanks for reading, and please, please review!**


	4. Scars

Léa was frightened when she awoke on an uncomfortable mattress covered in a thin blanket. All she could remember was running. Trees and briars, cold air, the Nazi soldier. She had been terrified – and she had good reason to be. Suddenly the image of her father, yellowed skin and lifeless eyes, came back to her.

'Papa,' Léa moaned, tears squeezing from under her lids. Then she heard a noise – it sounded like a cough. Pushing herself from the mattress, she swayed, dizzy. Her head ached. Léa took two tentative steps, hands thrust out either side to help her balance. Then she heard another noise – crackling leaves. She ran, half-falling and tripping over her feet. Léa's eyes, barely accustomed to the dim light in the passageway, were of no help. Stumbling blindly down the passageway, she was suddenly accosted by a bright light. It stung her eyes. Léa sought another exit, and found one – she ran down it, her whole body protesting. Her legs hurt, her head ached, her eyes were screaming with pain, her nose and mouth stung.

Looking round, Léa found herself in another dilapidated room, with only two exits: the passageway she had just come through, and a heavy iron door opposite, with a large bolt and rusting padlock. Loud footsteps resounded in the room, the person creating the noise evidently running quite fast. Léa crossed to the iron door, tugging uselessly at the padlock. Rust came away in her fingers. Tears blossomed in her eyes and crept stealthily down her cheeks. She searched on the floor with her hands, locking for a stick, a rock – anything – that could help open the door. Her fingers closed round a heavy object and she brought it down with a small amount of force on the lock. It crumbled to dust. Léa pulled back the bolt and heaved open the door; she disappeared round it just as a large, bear-like man entered the room behind her.

Outside the door, a leafy path stretched in either direction, with relatively new truck-marks dug into the wet ground. Léa could feel the water between her bare toes as she ran down the path, then fell and pulled herself back up again. Her dress, once so pretty, was sopping wet and covered in mud and dried blood. Not caring about the dirt on her arms and legs, Léa kept running. Someone shouted out behind her; she couldn't hear the words he said. She tried to run faster, but there were white spots at the edge of her vision, and the mud seemed to cling to her feet and suck her down.

The path rounded a corner and widened out into a clearing. Lea slid over the ground, her feet slipping as she tried to stop running. In the clearing was a truck; it's back was covered by cloth stretched over a thick metal skeleton. It was clearly military and was painted grey. Surrounding the truck were seven men, dressed in roughly the same clothes – brown trousers and grey jackets – all carrying an assortment of wooden boxes and plump, rough sacks. And they all had guns.

Léa turned around and ran back the way she had came, but there was a man there, massive and bearlike. She recognised him – he had tried to kill her! Turning again, she saw that the men in the clearing had all dropped their boxes and sacks and were training their guns on her. Léa whimpered and then, seeing a small gap in the trees, ran towards it. Suddenly, all the men in the clearing were yelling at the same time, and then two shots were fired. Léa saw the bullet pass before her face, and heard the small _thwat_ noise it made as the bullet embedded itself in a tree.

And then she ran straight into a man's arms. They wrapped around her and she screamed as she looked up into the cold, grey eyes of Hugo Stiglitz.

* * *

She sat on the wet ground and shivered. She was silent. Her face was bruised. Her eyes were dark. Wicki was watching her. He stood behind her, one hand on the gun that was hung with a leather strap round his neck.

The other Basterds were eating. Donny had constructed a stick contraption that allowed a pot to be hung over a fire. He had made a thick soup with water, meat, oats and potatoes. There was also bread. It wasn't good quality, but The Basterds had been low on money in the last couple of weeks and therefore any food tasted like the grandest feast. They ate in silence, paying respect to those who were no longer with them. Eating from Billycans, with their bread balanced on their knees and their Jerry cans at their feet, they looked like any other group of American soldiers.

Raine cast a glance at Wicki and the girl, who were situated about five feet from the fire. She sure didn't look like a spy. What she did look like was a half-starved child who had been beaten very badly by a group of men, and had been mentally scarred by that event. Raine felt pity churn his insides, and pushed the feeling away. He reached over and ladled some more soup into his Billycan, then stood and walked over to the girl. He held out the Billycan and waited. She looked at the food, then meaningfully turned her head and stared into the forest. Controlling his anger, Raine set the food down in front of her and went back to where he was sitting. The other Basterds finished their meals and Zimmerman went to wash the dirty cans in the stream. Stiglitz and Utivich sat down to play cards, Hirschberg and Donny offered to clear the camp of dead Nazis and Raine sat with his hands by the fire, waiting for the girl to eat the food in front of her.

It didn't take long – the girl eyed the food suspiciously, then sent a glare over at Raine, who looked away immediately. She picked up the metal spoon from the floor, wiped it on her dress and then hesitantly tasted the food. Changing to a kneeling position, she picked up the can, having little trouble with the handle, and started eating properly. As she ate, two small spots of colour appeared high on her cheeks, and her fingers stopped shaking.

Raine handed her some bread and she snatched it, then soaked up some soup with it and shoved it into her mouth. It was a little odd – and a little humorous – to see the frail girl shovelling food into her mouth as though she had not eaten for weeks. _Which,_ Raine told himself, _was quite possible._

As soon as she had finished, Raine took the can from her and put it beside the fire. Then he sat down opposite her. His pity had gone now: he wanted answers.

'What's your name, girl?' he asked. The girl shook her head. She didn't understand. Raine motioned to Wicki and he knelt down beside her.

'Wie heißen Sie?'

The girl shook her head again, then blurted, 'Je suis Française.'

Wicki nodded and said, 'Quel est votre nom?'

'Léa,' she whispered. 'Léa Marceau.'

'Where're you from?' Raine asked. Wicki relayed it in French.

'Barrisseuse.'

'And why were you in the middle of a Jew massacre?'

'Je suis un Juif. Nous avons été s'échapper. Ensuite, les Nazis nous tendu une embuscade et maintenant ma famille sont tous morts!' Léa said, her eyes moist. Raine looked at Wicki expectantly.

'She says she's a Jew, that they were escaping and that her family are all dead from Nazis,' Wicki supplied.

'Why escape now, though? The Nazis have been in France for four years. Were you hiding'?' As soon as Wicki asked the question, the girl turned white. She stuttered, trying to find words. Her eyes flicked from Raine to Wicki to the trees. She was clearly contemplating running away. She didn't want to answer that question. Léa let loose a stream of French, her voice dripping with the secret she desperately wanted to hide.

'She says they were hidden in a house, then someone told the Nazis and they had to run away. Then she said about the Nazis killing her family again. She's lying.'

'Yeah, I can see that,' Raine agreed. He was about to question her further when he was interrupted by a whoop of ecstasy from Utivich, who had just beaten Stiglitz at cards.

'Hey 'tenant,' Zimmerman asked as he trudged back into the camp, the clean Billycans stacked in his hands, his hair wet and face pink from washing himself, 'Can we look at the stuff we pulled off those Nazis?' Raine nodded, gestured to the box of jewellery and then turned to the girl. He was about to ask what she was hiding, when she opened her mouth and asked something in French.

'Wicki?'

'She wants to wash.' Raine rolled his eyes. Shook his head.

'S'il vous plaît?' she asked tentatively, her eyes still wet from tears.

'Fine. Stiglitz! Take the girl to the stream and _don't let her run away!' _Stiglitz pushed himself off the ground and came to Raine's side. He had overheard the whole conversation between his Lieutenant and the French girl named Léa. Stiglitz had also seen her reaction to Raine's question about why they were escaping. He could tell that she was covering something up – it was clear to see – but what he also saw was fear. Pure, unadulterated terror. Whatever it was that had caused her family to leave had scarred the girl mentally. He wondered what – or who – it was that the girl was so afraid of.

* * *

The water was dreadfully cold. Léa dipped her toes in and then retreated to a rock, where she crouched like a frog and cupped handfuls of water to rub on her arms and legs. Then, feeling stupid, she looked around to see if anyone was in the vicinity. Only Stiglitz was there, watching her with an unblinking gaze. She took a deep breath, then started to unbutton her dress. It fell away from her body leaving her shivering in a thin, silk under slip. It hugged her body; her ribs were visible through the fabric, and her hips were the widest part of her body. She was incredibly thin.

Léa was embarrassed by the hard look Stiglitz was giving her. Folding the dress, she placed it on the rock, then turned away from Stiglitz and stepped into the water, wanting to show him that she was not afraid. Her exclamation of shock was louder than his. She didn't hear his choked gasp. The water swirled around her ankles. She waded further in, her chest tightening as the water reached her mid-calf. She reached down and rubbed softly at her skin, watching as the dirt and blood from her skin mixed with the clear water.

Léa sat down in the water – it reached to her ribcage. More comfortable with the temperature now, she untied her hair and dragged her fingers through it, then leaned back and soaked it in the water. More dirt and blood came from her hair, got caught in the current and swirled gently down the river. Massaging her scalp, Léa stood up out of the water and splashed quietly to the edge, her under slip nearly see-through. Stiglitz stared at her, an unfathomable expression on her face.

'Qu'est-ce?' Léa asked, scared.

'Where did you get those scars?' His voice was harsh. Léa didn't understand. 'Where?' Stiglitz asked again, louder. He stepped towards her and Léa unconsciously backed away. Hugo grabbed her arm, and spun her round. He pushed Léa's wet hair aside and laid a finger on her back, running it over the raised skin of a long, thin scar of which three inches were visible above her slip. Léa shivered as Stiglitz laid his palm on her back and felt the skin beneath the silk. There were more scars underneath. They were pink, but old.

Léa shook him off, stepping into the water and turning to face him. Hugo took a step back, then disappeared into the forest. Léa stood for a few minutes in the water. He knew what had happened – she could tell. Why else would he have been so interested in the scars? Léa put a hand to her shoulder and felt the scar that Stiglitz had touched. The hot pain of the whip flashed through her, and then it was gone, to be replaced with a chill that crept through her body. If that brute knew who had... if he told the American... tears overflowed in her eyes and dripped from her chin. She hugged her body and shuddered.

Through the trees, she saw the massive Bear Jew coming towards her, a gun in his hands. _Face your death like a man, Léa, _she told herself. But when the Bear Jew splashed through the river and came to her side, he simply put down his gun and held out her dress for her to put on. She took it gratefully and slipped it over her wet shift. It stuck to her. Donny, seeing her trembling hands and legs, took off his grey jacket and held it out to her, but she looked away and walked towards the camp. Shrugging, Donny put the jacket back on and followed her, picking up his gun on the way back to the camp.

**Review please. Again, a bit of a nothing chapter, but it'll be like that for a while. Sorry if that's not your thing. **


	5. A Full House

**Thank you everyone for your reviews – it's really great to have people praise your work. I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as the others. **

No one noticed Hugo's silence as they sat in the camp, idling away the time between dawn and dusk. Of course, to The Basterds, this silence was no different from his normal silence. But Hugo was having an internal conflict. After seeing that girl's scars, so similar to his own, he had stormed into the camp, informing Donny that he would by no means be babysitting the French girl any longer. He knew that the other Basterds wondered what had happened, but he wouldn't tell them. He wouldn't tell anyone. But he had to! Raine had to know that the girl was lying – that she had a secret that could jeopardize them. She had to be a spy! There was no other reasonable explanation. Hugo had to tell Raine before the girl became more integrated into their group – if he waited, Raine wouldn't believe him. But if he told Raine and Raine then killed her, and it turned out she wasn't a spy... Hugo couldn't have that on his shoulders. He decided to leave it to fate. Looking round the camp, he tried to find something to base this on. There – Hirschberg and Zimmerman's poker game. If Hirschberg lost, Hugo told himself, he would tell Raine immediately. And if Zimmerman lost, Hugo would wait until he had concrete proof about the girl's being a spy.

The two American-born Jews were using various pieces of jewellery stolen from Nazis as their chips. It was nearing the end of the game. Both men had five cards in their hands and the box between them (turned upside down, serving as a table) had a pile of rings, necklaces and pocket watches in the centre. Zimmerman picked up a new card and Hirschberg copied him. Pushing the entire contents of his pile of jewellery into the middle of the table, Zimmerman uttered the words, 'All in.' Hirschberg, frowning at his cards, did the same.

They lay down their cards. A royal flush and a full house.

Hugo would tell Raine.

'Sir, can I speak to you?' Hugo motioned for his lieutenant to come away with him to a more private spot. Raine did so, an amused expression flitting across his face. They stood just outside the tunnel.

'Now, what's this all about, Stiglitz?' he drawled.

'I think the French child is a spy.' Hugo did not mince words – his statement was short and direct.

'Oh yeah? And what proof ya got?'

'Think about it, sir. We find her in the middle of a Jew massacre – the only one left alive. And she was clearly trying to hide something when you asked her about her escape. Also, she is not wearing clothes that one would wear to escape in.' Raine shook his head.

'Yeah, that's all correct, but you got no proof. How can you be sure?'

'She has scars. On her back.' Raine raised an eyebrow.

'Well, Stiglitz, I wouldn't've put you down as a Peepin' Tom,' Raine said, the amused expression back on his face. Hugo gave him a scathing look, and replied,

'I have the same scars. There can be no misunderstanding. She has been imprisoned personally by Dieter Hellstrom.' Raine was silent as he digested this piece of information. It was clear from Stiglitz's expression that he was telling the truth, and that he was uncertain about telling his commanding officer.

'That may be,' he said, after some deliberation, 'but it don't mean she's a spy. What if she escaped?'

'I don't want to cause offence, sir, but that is ridiculous. I've been imprisoned there. I didn't escape. And look how thin she is – she can't have eaten for weeks! How would she escape if – ' Hugo broke off as Donny came back into the camp, the girl walking beside him, her wet dress sticking to her body.

Hugo tore his gaze from her and went into the fort. Raine ran his fingers through his hair, and looked at Léa. She had seated herself beside Wicki, and was looking up at him through her lashes. Her hair was even longer now it was wet. It reached to her waist.

'Wicki!' Raine called. The Austrian Jew looked up. 'Get her some more clothes!'

Wicki led the girl up the slope to the Nazi clothes.

'Take your pick,' Wicki said in French, motioning to the pile. Léa shook her head.

'This is fine.'  
'Look, you're going to die of cold tonight. You need some more clothes,' Wicki insisted.

'They are dead men's clothes. I will not dishonour them, even if they are the fuckers who killed my father.'

'You would rather die? How do you think that will benefit your family? How will you get revenge if you're dead, girl?' The words seemed to affect her. She leaned forwards and picked up a jacket with two holes and bloodstains on the front, then discarded it. Digging deeper, she pulled out a grey shirt that was relatively blood-free, and a knitted blue jumper that Wicki distinctly remembered pulling off a young Nazi who looked a lot like his younger brother. The boy had been wearing it under his uniform to keep warm. Wicki sifted through the pile of boots and handed her the smallest pair. She had also found a pair of grey trousers, a belt and some socks.

'Thank you,' she whispered.

'You're welcome. My name is Wicki. I can translate for you if you want.'

'Thank you. I am Léa. I have heard of you. This man here – ' She pointed at Raine, who had taken Hirschberg's place and was now in the process of thoroughly beating Zimmerman's ass at poker. 'He is Aldo the Apache?' Wicki frowned at her, then nodded assent.

'How did you know?' The girl looked at her feet.

'Rumours told me that there was a group of Jews fighting the Nazis and that their leader had a scar round his neck,' she mumbled.

'You can go into the fort to change if you want.' Wicki observed that she didn't like talking about herself, apart from when talking off her family. Léa shook her head, her eyes wide – strange eyes, black and wet like oil, Wicki noticed.

'The German is in there. He...' Wicki nodded again, an amused smile playing about his lips.

'Stiglitz has that effect on many people.'

'His name is Stiglitz?' Léa asked, unbuttoning her dress and dropping it to the ground. She put the shirt on and then the jumper over the top. Wicki pulled the collar up and folded it down over the neck of her jumper. She smiled at him gratefully. The trousers were much too big for her, so she pulled them up and belted them just above her naval, and tightened the braces to their limit. Wicki handed Léa the jackboots as she slipped her small feet into the thick socks, her hair tumbling like a waterfall over her shoulder.

'His name is Hugo. He was a Nazi, but he killed some Gestapo and then was imprisoned at a detention centre in Paris. They were going to kill him, but instead they decided to send him to Berlin. When the lieutenant heard about him, he decided that Stiglitz would soon be a part of our group. Then we went and got him out of a prison in Strasbourg. And he's been with us for about four months. He's a good fighter.'

'Yes, he's very violent,' Léa replied, suppressing a shudder. She sat down on the pile of clothes, looking at the sun, which was just visible between the trees to the west. It was at that time in the evening when the sun's white light fades to pink, then purple, casting shadows on the clouds. Together, Wicki and Léa watched the sun set over the Chantilly forest, calm and at ease with the world.

* * *

Hans Landa had two children. They were very young still – both under ten. They had different mothers. The first mother was twenty-eight – twenty-two when her child was born. Her name was Renée. She was French. The daughter, born to her six years previously, had inherited her mother's pale skin, grey eyes and white-blonde hair. At five, she was a beauteous being, with plump red lips and smooth skin, tiny fingernails on the end of small fingers. Had her father picked her up and held her face next to his – which he never did, nor gave any other show of emotion towards his children – the similarities between them would have been quite clear: the jaw-line – so feminine in Hans, yet perfect on his daughter; the slender nose, slightly upturned on the girl; the round, small ears, hidden beneath curled, ethereal hair. Her name was Esther.

The second mother, dead from childbirth, couldn't have been more different to Renée. A German named Therese, with hair dark like ebony and shadowy eyes, whose willowy body had reached just less than six feet tall. Her son, like his half-sister, had the palest skin, but his eyes were black, his hair even darker, and he had none of his father in his face. In fact, no child could look less like its father than the four-year-old Herrick. Stood beside his sister, her in a green dress, and him in his pale shirt and blue pullover, one would never guess that the two children shared a common parent, nor that they were even related. Even Hans, on his infrequent visits to see Renée with the two children, could see less and less of himself in their faces each time. It saddened Hans to see Herrick being brought up by someone who was not his mother. He visited so little himself that the child was almost an orphan.

After the birth of his second child and Therese's death, Hans had brought a house in central Paris for his children to inhabit and inherit. It was of reasonable size – four flours, a balcony and on the river no less – and had cost Hans a lot of money. He had also supplied the house with a cook and three personal servants, whose wages were paid for out of his personal accounts. This expense was, to Hans, the price he had to pay for his disinclinations towards visiting his children. However, the amount of money spent on his children's wellbeing barely dented the funds saved in his accounts. Hans had a lot of money – he always had had, even before the war – something he didn't like to flaunt, and it was the least he could do for his bastard children to put money towards their futures.

On this particular visit – on the second day of September in the year 1944 – Hans had come bearing gifts. He did not expect to see Esther and Herrick before Christmas and therefore had brought them both highly expensive presents to compensate for that fact. Hans climbed the stairs to the front door and checked his reflection in the gilded doorknob beneath the house number: 43. He looked – as always – flawless in his pressed grey uniform and embellished hat. Satisfied that he would be presentable for his son and daughter, Hans lifted and dropped the large, lion-shaped doorknocker. He heard footsteps on the other side of the door and a very young servant, her dress black with a white collar, her apron spotless, opened it.

'Colonel Landa,' she murmured, holding the door for him.

'Merci Madame,' he said jovially. The maid shut the door behind him and took his proffered hat and gloves.

'Mistress Renée is waiting in the living room,' the maid said in French. Hans' boots clicked with a satisfying loudness on the black-and-white tiled hall floor as he walked past the carpeted staircase and pushed open the door that led to the living room.

It was a large room, with a high ceiling and white-painted walls. There were three couches situated in the middle of the room, of red upholstery and mahogany-wood legs. A small end-table made of a similar wood was set with two china tea-cups, and a blue-and-white teapot. There was a grand piano in front of the window; its cover was propped up and inner machinery exposed. A bookcase lined another wall, it's higher shelves full of elegantly bound tomes, the lower ones a mess of children's books. Renée was stood beside the bookcase, looking slender and radiant in a floral shirt and grey skirt that hugged her body, blonde hair pinned up at the back. Her eyes were fixed on Hans, waiting expectantly for him to greet her. She held a red book in her hand. As he crossed the room, Hans caught a glimpse of the title: _**A Book Of Poetry by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.**_

'_A__nd how she wept, and clasped his knees;_

_And how she tended him in vain;_

_And ever strove to expiate_

_The scorn that crazed his brain,_' Hans quoted in English, greeting Renée with a kiss to her hand. She put the book back on the bookcase with a little more force than was necessary and motioned to the sofas.

'Tea, Colonel?' Hans' face fell a little as Renée turned her back on him and took a seat.

'Ever cold, I see, Renée. Whenever will you greet me with a smile?' They spoke in French. Renée did not look round as she answered in a clipped, tight voice:

'I will smile, Colonel, when you visit more often than every six months. Your _children_ will forget you.' Tea poured smoothly into one china cup, and then the next. As Hans sat down opposite her, Renée handed him a cup of tea. He reached over and spooned sugar in, then stirred thrice counter-clockwise before tasting it.

'Talking of our children,' Hans said, putting a little stress on the word_ our_, ' where are Ester and Herrick?' Sipping her tea, Renée gestured with a finger, pointing up at the ceiling. 'Could you call them down?' Hans asked, raising his eyebrows when Renée smiled graciously and stood without a word. She left the room and Hans heard her ascending the stairs. He finished his tea and poured some more. It scalded his throat as he drank.

The door opened and Renée came back in, two children in tow. They had grown a great deal since Hans' last visit in January. He reminded himself, with a wince, of their ages. Was it really almost five years since Therese's death? His daughter looked just as beautiful as her mother, curling hair cropped and pinned back from her face. And Herrick looked just as remarkable as Therese had; he was black-and-white, his eyes and hair dark like coal, skin like snow. There were shadows under his eyes – Hans wondered if his son was having trouble sleeping.

'Bonjour, Papa,' Esther said shyly, her fingers clutched tight around her half-brother's hand.

'Bonjour, Ester, Herrick,' Hans replied. He knelt before his daughter and touched her cheek. 'I have a gift for you.' Digging in an inside pocket of his grey jacket, Hans pulled out a small black box with a white ribbon tied round it. He undid the ribbon and pulled off the lid with a flourish. Inside, nestled in black satin, was an oval locket, a large 'E' inscribed on the front.

'Say thank-you, Esther,' Renée scolded lightly.

'Merci, Papa.' Esther's voice was high and lilting, like the chime of bells.

'And for you, Herrick, a pocket watch!' Hans laughed as his son took the heavy silver watch from him and caressed it, a look of awe on his face. 'Now you look after those, won't you?' His children nodded assent. Hans stood and turned to Renée, producing a second box identical to Esther's. Renée opened it carefully; inside was a pair of rose-quartz earrings, shaped like roses.

'Thank-you Hans, I'm grateful for your kindness,' she said, and allowed him to kiss her hand again. She truly was grateful for everything Hans had done for her and the children. However, she still hated the bastard.

**Well, I've been on a bit of a high lately. Three chapters in so many days – it's not bad. This one focussed on Hans a bit more, and the relationship with his children. Hans will be a bigger part of the story eventually, and he'll have a large part to play in the climax. Please review!**

**The poem Hans recites is 'Love,' by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. It's supposed to reflect something within their relationship. But anyway, PLEASE review!  
**


	6. The Star Of David

It was midnight. The clouds, silhouetted against the pale moon, looked like castle battlements. Trees stood side by side, huddling together. The world seemed shamed into a smothering silence: the river trickled slowly; the small noises from the animals in the undergrowth were muffled and soft.

The clearing was still. Warm breath fanned over cold flesh – skin that looked sallow in the moonlight. A cigarette was rolled between shivering fingers; smoke swirled in the fire's flickering light like a ghost, curling and dancing, before disappearing into the shadows. A cough broke the silence, the sufferer hawking loudly and spitting the phlegm into the dry leaves at his feet. Hugo Stiglitz drew again on his roll-up and exhaled through his nose. He sniffed, and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.

The cigarette flared as it reached the end; he sucked in a breath as the heat seared his fingertips. He flicked the butt into the fire and spat again.

Hugo felt angry and confrontational, uneasy and subdued; broken. He picked at a scab on his hand until he felt warm blood trickling over his knuckles; he licked it and revelled in the metallic taste that filled his mouth. Pulling at the collar of his shirt, he licked his top lip and ran trembling fingers through his hair. He couldn't concentrate. Emotions were running wild in his blood; Hugo stood up and shouted loudly, a wordless scream of frustration and fury. He realised he sounded like a wolf, and started laughing.

'God, what's wrong with me?' He spoke to the sky, his eyes on the moon. There was no reply; he didn't expect one. He tugged at his collar again, and accidentally caught his thumb in the chain that hung round his neck. Remembering its existence brought a flash of pain. Hugo pulled the chain from under his shirt, and flicked open the heavy locket, feasting his eyes on the small photograph trapped in its silver case. Magdalena looked beautiful and young, just like Hugo remembered her: long hair pinned at the back, shadowed eyes, slightly dark skin.

Looking at her photograph, his mind involuntarily flicked to Léa, the French girl who – as he believed – was a spy for Dieter Hellstrom. _And, _Hugo thought disdainfully, _I won't change my mind until she proves her innocence. _Although Hugo had imparted his fears to his American commander, Lieutenant Raine, he still felt unprotected and bare. He constantly found himself on his guard around the girl – and Wicki, the girl's 'translator' – and was almost afraid of her and what she could do to his life.

Hugo snapped the locket shut. He couldn't think about Magdalena. It had been three years, and yet he still felt physical pain whenever he remembered her. _Why can't the dead just be dead?_ The thought flashed through his head before he had a chance to stop it. Immediately he regretted thinking it. 'Sorry,' he whispered, and kissed the locket. 'I love you.'

The crunch of leaves and whispered voices from above broke into Stiglitz's silence like a gunshot. Startled, he dropped the locket back down his shirt and hid the movement with the pretence of rubbing his face. As he looked up, Sergeant Donny Donowitz and Private Omar Ulmer slid down the bank and into the clearing, creating such noise as to make Stiglitz hiss, 'Shut _up!_' Donny put his hands up as a signal of submission to his complaint – the gesture slightly marred by the heavy gun in one hand – and then frowned.

'Where's the 'tenant?' Donny asked, his black hair falling forward into his dirty, mud-streaked face. Stiglitz ignored his American comrade, instead pulling out his tin cigarette box – full of ready-made roll-ups – and putting a match to one of them. Donny looked at Ulmer, who shrugged, and then back to the German. 'Asleep?' he continued. Stiglitz nodded curtly, and pushed himself off the ground, turning and stalking off, his shadow flickering in the fire's light. As he left, Stiglitz just heard Ulmer's muttered words;

'We need to wake him up. Raine needs to know what we saw.'

As Donny moved towards the tunnel, a noise inside halted him. Raine appeared at the tunnel entrance, his eyes dark from sleep.

'No need, boys. Now, what is it ya'll need to tell me?' he asked, buttoning up his overcoat and seating himself on a log by the withering fire; Donny and Ulmer sat opposite him

'We were doing our scoutin', and we saw –' Donny broke off in the middle of his sentence as Wicki stepped out of the tunnel too and crossed to the fire, his skin white against the midnight sky.

'What's happening?' Wicki asked, settling down beside Raine and pulling from his pocket a hipflask. He offered it round: Raine and Ulmer declined; Donny took a hearty swig and returned it to his Austrian brother-in-arms.

'Is the girl awake?' The Bear Jew asked apprehensively. Wicki shot him a questioning look, but shook his head. 'We was just telling' Raine here what we found on our scout-out. It's about half a mile out, to the north. There's a camp o' Nazis, about thirty of the fuckers.'

'The only reason we could think of for their being here,' Ulmer interjected, 'was that the French kid led 'em here.'

'That's impossible, you morons. How could she have led 'em here? Why are you so judgemental toward her? She's just a kid.'

'Incorrect, Sir,' Wicki said quickly. 'Léa's seventeen.' The three Basterds turned at stared at Wicki in disbelief. Léa was the smallest girl any of them had ever seen: stick-like arms, tiny abdomen, long fingers; a child's proportions. At a guess she could be twelve, or thirteen at the most.

'She's _seventeen?'_ Donny exclaimed. Wicki nodded in assent.

'She told me yesterday,' he explained, his mouth curling into a smile. Raine warmed his hands over the fire.

'Lieutenant, now do you believe she led those Nazis here?' Ulmer asked.

'No. She hasn't had any time alone to leave a message, let alone physically get in contact with them.' Raine shook his head slowly as he talked, running his hands through his hair. Donny looked awkwardly over the fire at his commander. 'Spill it, Donny,' Raine said, his voice clipped.

'Well, that first day we found her – the day Stiglitz came into camp with her – she was at the river with him, 'member?'

'And, so what?'

'Well, Stiglitz came nearly runnin' to the camp, all angry, and so I went to get the girl. She was alone for about three minutes, sir.'

All four men sat back, contemplating this new piece of information. Wicki, the closest of all the Basterds to Léa, was in complete refusal to this idea: she was young, she was small, she hated the Nazis; what use would she be to them? He couldn't comprehend how the others were even contemplating this idea. As he opened his mouth to speak, another foreign voice joined their conversation.

'How can you dispute my reasoning now?' Stiglitz stepped into the fire's light, a cigarette between his fingers. He put it to his lips, drew, and spoke again; 'As you Americans say, 'the odds are against her.' The things I told you – and now this. You cannot deny it, Lieutenant.'

'What about coincidence?' Wicki asked angrily, his eyes burning as he defended the girl against the German.

'There ain't no such thing,' Ulmer said, quite oblivious to the furious stares passing between Wicki and Stiglitz. 'Two people die in the same circumstances and it ain't coincidence. This ain't no different.'

'I can't agree, Lieutenant.' Wicki took another swallow from his hipflask and continued; 'The Nazis have known our position since we let the first prisoner go. They just have attacked in single groups, and now they attack in a large band you think something is wrong. There is nothing wrong. We will kill them all and then things will go back to normal –'

'And we'll lose two more guys?' Donny cut in. 'Just like with Kagan and Sakowitz?' Wicki turned to him.

'We can be more careful this time. Trick them.' Raine looked at Wicki with a renewed interest: his eyes brightened, his eyebrows raised an inch and a small smile played around the corners of his mouth.

'How?' he asked.

'We leave. Tonight. They storm into our camp tomorrow morning and we're not here. Then we ambush them from the sides – they'll be cut off and surrounded.' Raine nodded in contemplation, before asking of his Sergeant:

'How many did you say there were, Donny?'

'We saw about twenty in the first group, six in the second and about twelve in the third. So that's about –' He did the maths on his fingers. 'Thirty-eight, sir.'

Stiglitz spat onto the ground and coughed, disgusted.

'You are so blind! All of you!' he shouted. 'She is a Nazi spy who will get us all killed! I am sick of this. We are supposed to be killing the filth, not protecting their traitorous asses!' Stiglitz swore loudly in German and pushed himself off the ground. 'I can't sit here and wait for her to betray us. I'm going to do something about this.' He turned his back on the gobsmacked group of Basterds and stormed away

'If you do something stupid and get yourself captured we ain't comin' after you, moron!' Donny called after him as their ex-Nazi brother disappeared into the shadows.

'I hope he doesn't do anything foolish,' Wicki commented quietly; he had calmed somewhat and now saw the reasoning behind Stiglitz's argument.

'I agree,' Raine said. 'I'll go have a word with him, calm him down a bit. He'll see sense.' Their commander stood up and reached into his pocket. 'Anyone got a smoke?' he asked. Everyone patted themselves down, but no one could find any cigarettes. Raine shrugged and left the clearing, following Stiglitz's path.

'Perhaps it's time to sleep,' Wicki suggested.

Donny muttered: 'I'm gonna stay up and find something to eat.'

'G'night,' Ulmer nodded to Wicki.

As the Austrian trudged back towards the tunnel, something white caught his eye. It was hovering just inside the entrance; as his eyes focussed on it, Wicki realised what 'it' was – a hand, with slender fingers and bruised nails. A female hand. Then it was gone in a blur of white.

Hurrying a little, Wicki crossed the threshold to the tunnel and looked towards Léa's bedroll. She was fast asleep, one arm flung over her face, the other tucked under the blanket. Her left foot – clad in a thick sock – was poking out from the end of the bedroll. Wicki bent down and pulled the blanket over it. As he gazed down at her, she mumbled in her sleep and her fingers twitched. Wondering if he had imagined the hand-like apparition, Wicki knelt down on his own bedroll, the one next to the girl's, and folded up his jacket for use as a pillow. He lay down, two questions floating in the back of his mind: Had the girl been there? And if so, how much had she heard?

* * *

Morning dawned bright and clear. Smoke rose from the ashes of a once-blazing fire; it had long since collapsed and now sat in a circle of scorched grass. A light frost covered the ground, crunching underfoot. Leaves, their colours ranging from dark brown to deep ochre, steadily flowed from the trees above.

The boy shivered under his grey uniform. He was barely eighteen, his face still smooth and soft, with no trace of stubble. Eyes like emeralds stared from under a heavy brow and shadowy lids. His lips were thin and pale in colour, and chapped from the cold. His name was Raoul. He was going to die in thirteen minutes.

As he crouched at the edge of the clearing, he thought about how he would die. The thought took him by surprise; but he realised he was not afraid. Calm and confident, Raoul straightened his back and took a deep breath. Holding it, he stepped forwards into the clearing. His foot came down on something that was not leaves. Lifting his boot, Raoul pushed aside the mud and felt his fingers close around something cold and sharp. He pulled it from the dirt and rubbed it with his thumbs. It was a silver six-pointed star, the Star of David; the star of the Jews. Staring at it, Raoul saw all the Jews he had killed: a thirty-year-old man named Ralph, and his wife Sarah; a teenaged boy named Bruno, who had black hair; Lisbeth, a nine-year-old girl who had cried for her brother as Raoul put the gun to her forehead. They had all died quickly; Raoul was not one to revel in causing pain. When he died, he hoped to die painfully, to repent for all the lives he had taken; he hoped to die in a Jew's quest for vengeance.

A sharp whistle alerted Raoul to the outside world. He dismissed the morbid thoughts from his head and concentrated on the task in hand. Pocketing the Star, he wiped his fingers on his grey jacket and raised his gun. Slowly, he edged into the clearing. His feet crunched on the grass and leaves, making more noise than was appropriate. There was nothing to be done, however, so he continued. Reaching the entrance to the old fort, he paused to look inside. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark there, Raoul saw that the tunnel was empty. Well, emptier than he'd expected. General debris littered the floor: empty rounds, ripped cloth, a pair of boots, standing tall.  
More than a little surprised, Raoul pulled his head from the tunnel and signalled to his fellow soldiers. He hit his left palm with his fisted right hand, put up two fingers and then sliced his right hand through the air. The signs for empty, look and return. _It's empty, I can see. Returning. _

Seven minutes had passed. He had five minutes left to live.

The bullet was released from a sniper rifle at 860 metres per second. It entered Raoul's body just underneath his sixth rib, from the back, putting a hole in his uniform. The bullet ripped through his lung and then exited his body.

The young soldier's eyes widened. His gun fell to the floor and his fingers straightened. Then he dropped to the floor. Blood pooled in Raoul's left lung. His tongue felt big, too large for his mouth, and tasted salty. He coughed. A metallic warm liquid collected in his throat, and choked him. He coughed and coughed, unable to move. Then the pain hit.


End file.
